


Virtuous Agnostic

by BARALAIKA



Category: Doom (Video Games), Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Armor Kink, Barebacking, Blood and Gore, Breeding, Catheters, Clothed Sex, Intersex, M/M, MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor System, Praetor Suit, Sexual Experimentation, Vaginal Sex, removal of sensitive medical equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BARALAIKA/pseuds/BARALAIKA
Summary: (Commission) AU Doom/Halo Pornverse crossover. Cheef gets the Doomguy dick.
Relationships: Doom Marine | Doom Slayer | Doomguy/John-117 | Master Chief
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	Virtuous Agnostic

They didn’t need to speak. Just fuck.  
  
John had never been one for words, but his compatriot seemed even less so. His eyes, wide and wild, said everything that swirled around his mind and more, but all that he could discern was _violence_. This was no normal man. Although smaller in stature than he, the Doom Slayer appeared to be some manner of superhuman all the same.  
  
His body was tough and thick under his sundered power armour— only a few parts remained on his arms and exposed his biceps, thick and bulging with power that no man could have wielded and when the Mjolnir scanned over its surface, a myriad of symbols had been etched into the unfamiliar nanocomposite alloys. They didn’t match any in the databases he’d kept up to date on, but similarities ran alongside those of the occultist movements of the nineteenth, twentieth and early twenty-first century. A continuation of some kind. An evolution. Now that proof stood before his eyes that Hell was _real_ and demons _existed_ , what did that mean to him? He’d never had reason to have faith, nor deny it. It simply never factored into his mind.  
  
 _The virtuous agnostics...  
  
_ Was that him?  
  
A solid hand reached out for his and without a second thought, John took it. The Slayer’s boots were firmly planted in charred, red-veined rock slightly above him and helped the stunned Spartan to the peak of the ledge to look over their hellscape.  
  
It was far from Dante’s imaginings. Further from those of Bosch. Even worse, it was _Earth_ , recognisable only for the scattered remains of human culture. A vast city was dead now, burning, smothered by flame and ash and magma, overseen by shambling horrors with twisted bodies and decayed faces. Eerily human, yetcompletelynot so. A world laid before him that he had never seen, never experienced, no memories of it and yet so completely familiar— the contradictions made John’s head hurt, until the need to _kill_ became more important.  
  
A roar tore his attention away from the remains of the world. He rose his rife towards the sound and immediately sprung into action alongside the Slayer as a Baron of Hell set its sights upon them.With two of them, the forces of hell were nothing. Bullets tore gashes in greasy skin and ripped organs apart, until the Slayer leapt atop its shoulders with a superhuman leap and wrenched the stunned demon’s head aside until a horrendous _CRACK_ resounded about them. His hands were weapons in themselves, grasping and twisting desperately as the Baron struggled a final few times, beat its hand weakly against the Slayer as it perished and slumped to the ground.  
  
A great plume of dust kicked up and John watched, stunned, at the scene before him as it settled.  
  
Covered in viscera, the Slayer stood triumphant and John marvelled at him. Resplendent in blood and clutching the sundered remains of the demon’s skull, he looked down from his perch on top of the beast’s hulking chest and grasped it with his other hand, looked straight into John’s visor and _twisted_. With a sick _CRUNCH_ , the Baron of Hell’s head came apart in his hands as if little more than plasticine and matches. Its brain slopped out in a cascade of bloody mush and teeth fell from its broken jaws like pebbles while the Slayer stared down at him, raw power incarnate.  
  
He was hard.  
  
The Slayer’s groin plate bulged out from where strapping held it in place, his cock straining behind it as he dropped the remains and beneath his helmet, _grinned_. John could see it. How his eyes contorted upwards, his lips and cheeks pulled back to expose his teeth and the bloodlust in his eyes. His body temperature was climbing, the Mjolnir noted, his heart beating ever harder, breath coming in hard huffs through his nose and teeth as arousal flooded him in ever climbing numbers.  
  
 _Internal temperature: peaking at 37.5 degrees Celsius, up .5 degrees from last scan. He’s into you, John. Or whatever he just killed,_ Cortana quipped.  
  
“Hn,” John scoffed to himself and his AI.  
  
 _Your temperature is rising as well. This vision of earth is burning and you’re... getting wet too? This is new.  
  
_ “It feels like a dream,” he mumbled to the both of them as the Slayer stared down at him, chest heaving with laboured breath, arms shuddering with barely-contained power. He hadn’t been into a man like this since basic training, stunned stupid and heart banging in his ears so hard that he could barely hear Cortana rattling off the numbers that made his cunt so flush.  
  
The Slayer moved first.  
  
He stepped down from the Baron of Hell’s chest, huge boot stamping down into its arm and crunching a bone inside as he came into contact with the burned, ashen ground. John was a foot taller than him and looked down into the opaque visor and bright blue killer’s eyes... and felt himself giving in. He didn’t move away, didn’t flinch when blood-drenched fingers came to rest on his hip plate and curled around the only edge he could find. Then _pulled_.  
  
The Mjolnir was a finely-calibrated, intensely well-engineered piece of kit that kept maintenance on his body completely and survived near on everything... except the Slayer’s greedy hands. He dragged John to the floor with him and pushed him down into the churned-up ash, blood and filth that was slowly turning into a mire.  
  
John was wet and dripping, stewing away in the flexible body suit that laid beneath his plates. The Slayer simply grasped it and pulled at it like an impatient dog, his inhuman force enough to stretch but not tear it— in place, he flipped his arm over and carved away with a sharp corner on his armour and pierced through. From there, he tore the last challenging layer of Mjolnir apart and feasted his eyes upon what laid underneath.  
  
Tubes ran from John’s thick cunt lips to the plate wrenched off of the front of him and it became apparent that it was a waste collection system. The Slayer ran thick, filthy fingers along them and followed the uppermost down to where John’s lips sat together, plump and hairy. With a strange amount of care, the Slayer rested his palm over the crest of his cunt-cleft, laid his thumb and forefinger down the sweaty, stuffy meat presented to him and spread it apart. John grunted as his flesh met open air and his clit finally had the proper room to throb, red and stiff and hidden in his thick, untended pubes. The first tube led up his piss slit and was, as the Slayer suspected, a catheter. A solid grip took it in his free hand and slowly but insistently, pulled on it.  
  
John had become so accustomed to its presence that as the tube slid from his body, the sensation of skin on skin seemed to _sting_ and with it, the contents of his bladder followed. When it popped free, his urethra gaped and trickled the last dribble of piss down towards his plugged up pussy, which the Slayer followed with his thumb, fascinated. There was something some bizarrely exploratory about his actions, careful and yet sure, as if he had the authority to do something but not the experience to know precisely what to do... and it endeared the man to John immensely. He stayed quiet, watched him intently and let him probe the soft, hot folds of his well-abused cunt at his own, leisurely pace.  
  
The tube in his vagina itself was thicker. It had hurt the worst going in and took the longest to grow used to, but now that he felt his cervix stretched around it for years, it was as normal a sensation as his catheter. A flared-ended tube collected his uterine lining as it shed during his periods, sat directly in his womb, and processed it along with the rest of his waste. His cunt itself was silken and sopping wet, no single gland or entrance responsible for its wetness, but he could not help but gasp when his cervix’s grip on the needle-like tube was interrupted.  
  
“ _Agh!_ ” He barked, as the Slayer gave a small pull. It didn’t come out as willingly as the first and he looked up instinctively. John gritted his teeth. “Just... do it. Quickly. _Now_ ,” he commanded in his best, deepest voice, and set his teeth together. Sure enough, the Doom Slayer squeezed the thick tube tightly... and yanked it out in one fell swoop. John surged forwards in pain as the collection device folded down to come through his tiny cervical opening and sprung back apart, then slid down his canal and out into the open. The Slayer stared down at the barbaric-looking end and grunted, threw it down and replaced it with one of his thick, disgusting fingers instead.  
  
After so many years un-fucked, John was tight again. He hadn’t ever expected for a _finger_ to make him moan, but the Slayer’s was so brutishly thick, rough in his armour and slick with demon filth that the wet _squelch_ seemed to ring between them, vulgar and inviting. The Slayer delved deeper, probing further into his body until knuckle hit cunt and he was groping around John’s sensitive cervix; the hulking soldier’s thighs quivered as he felt around, twisted his finger around and prodded upwards, until something made John gasp.  
  
The Doom Slayer introduced John to his g-spot with enough of a start to make his whole body jerk, his knees draw up and his spine arch. So naturally, the Slayer kept at it. He was not gentle in the slightest, until John’s squirming made it harder to hit— he held him in place with a huge hand and a solid grip, pressing his stomach as he sat between his shuddering thighs. What was this? He wanted _more_ and yet _less_ , as if he could not stand the sensation. Every part of him thrummed and convulsed, his bladder slowly dripping from his gaping urethra, the soft tissue inside him so mind-blowingly incredible to touch…  
  
 _I want… his cock…  
  
_ Who wouldn’t?  
  
As if he could read his mind, the Doom Slayer pulled his finger from the Master Chief’s desperate hole and took a moment to study the thick, snotty string of pussy-pre that hung between them. A trace of blood ran through it as if marbled, some manner of mucus and so much clear, slick grool that he couldn’t help it; he pushed his helmet up far enough to shove the soiled finger into his mouth and sucked it clean. John watched, stunned, cunt throbbing, as the Doom Slayer’s lips wrapped around his cunt slobber… and grunted. He liked it. He thought.  
  
Sure enough, he yanked his Praetor suit’s codpiece away from his front and dropped it aside, which allowed the Doom Slayer to prise his fitted lower layer open. As he worked, John marvelled at the bulk of his cock and how imposing it looked laying off to the side, plastered against his hip like a weapon in itself. It was _big_ , he thought, but it didn’t matter. It felt like a challenge to his nigh-on virgin gash, which still twitched and thrummed to a demanding rhythm and squelched like a whore in heat. It seemed to be enough guidance to the Slayer as he assessed the situation and grunted as he crouched down and grabbed John at the backs of his knees.  
  
He wasn’t gentle, but John didn’t care.  
  
Their size difference was enough of a bother that the Slayer needed some help to reach John’s gorgeous cunt and fuck it properly— John saw it and took hold of his legs as the Slayer folded him in half, bringing his fat, Spartan pussy up enough to ream. John groaned long and low as the smaller man pressed him to the right level, gripped his cock and let it slap against his nigh-virginal cunt hard enough to make the silent stud growl with pleasure. He rubbed himself through the fat lips, teased John’s clit and found the so-long-untouched slit of his pussy… then mounted his power-armoured bitch.  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ” John barked as the Slayer slid into him rough and hard, stretching him tight enough to make his eyes water. He was big, almost _too_ big, rough and mean as he leant over John and forced his legs flatter to his shoulders with his weight until he was comfortably squatted over him to _fuck_. The Slayer grunted as his balls clapped against John’s hairy ass with each thrust, the two of them rutting relatively slowly to begin with as the Slayer found the right angle to get deep as possible.  
  
He found it soon enough.  
  
The thick, blunt head punched John’s cervix like an iron-plated fist as the Slayer gathered pace, grunting in vulgar time with his thrusts like an animal of some kind, punctuated with wet, nasty slaps of their hot, swampy groins together. It didn’t matter where they were. All that mattered was the pounding of the Slayer’s hips into his deepest place and the bulk of his cock, the thick veins, the heavy foreskin, the way he could feel his ass tighten against his own.  
  
 _Cock… cock… th-this is the Slayer’s cock!  
  
_ John was dick-stupid, all his training and intellect gone with a slab of meat inside of him. His cervix begged like a slut’s open mouth, kissing the Slayer’s prick on each thrust until he was sure he could cum straight up into his untouched, pristine womb.  
  
“In me… c-cum in me…” John begged, breathless and overwhelmed by a new level of pleasure he’d never known. It was like he was a virgin again, like he wanted to repopulate the earth with the greatest force of nature he’d ever seen. “I want your… _nngh…_ ”  
  
The Slayer seemed to like that. He snorted through his nose and pressed down even harder, pumping his hips as hard and fast as he could as he lowered himself towards John’s face. Their helmets clacked together as the Slayer looked him dead in the eye despite the Mjolnir’s reflective visor, as close as two armoured beasts could be.  
  
John had never felt so close to anyone or anything as in that moment as he came harder than ever before. The Slayer slammed his crushing hips down one last time into his pulsating cunt and flooded the Master Chief’s womb with thick, potent cum. Nothing had felt so natural before. He met the Slayer’s wild eyes as they softened and he showed the first ever sign of tiredness that John had seen. Or was it tenderness? One blood-smeared hand thumped into the side of his helmet as if to hold his face and John turned into it as he huffed and rocked his hips, getting the last few pumps out of him. Their cum mingled in a swamp between them, which the Slayer seemed hesitant to separate.  
  
All that John could think to do was touch the Slayer’s helm back, as if making first contact with an unknown species.  
  
The Slayer’s eyes were reflected back to him, until John’s visor flickered and weary, pallid eyes came into view. He was pale and worn, deep-scarred and wrinkled, beaten by years of abuse and battle and finally, full of cock. He sighed, soft and short, let his eyes fall closed and leant his head all the way into his helmet as the Slayer painted a stripe of blood down the approximation of John’s cheek with his thumb.  
  
When they finally pulled apart, the Slayer put John’s catheter back in with a shocking gentleness, but had his hand pushed away from his uterine device. He didn’t question it as he fitted the plate back on and let his seed do as it would in John-117’s womb.


End file.
